I glared bitterly at the innocent strip of glass facing me, as if in any moment it would crack and then hopefully disintegrate. Sobs shook my body to the core and a dull but persistent ache pounded my forehead. Sure, I’d brought it upon myself from all the crying, but the hurt felt good. Through my blurred vision I could just about glimpse the outline of a face in the mirror. It was twisted into a scowl but the large, hazy eyes were tinged with self pity.
With a quivering hand, I grasped some chunky scissors and cast a long melancholy glance at my beautiful ebony hair which flickered dramatically in the bathroom light, as if to deter me. A dense chunk dispersed on the pale marble floor and more followed, lazily tumbling towards the ground. I gulped back the regretful sniffs as I relived all those times my friends had enviously remarked on my hair and took a last swipe with the scissors and looked up.
Short, haphazard wisps of hair covered my scalp and my plum shaped lips were even more plum like when they were inflamed. My sea blue eyes were milky and dismal and dirty black tears stained my scarlet cheekbones. I bit back a scream at the warped image of a girl I once knew staring back at me; she was a weary, ruined mess.
When I could bear it no longer, I swallowed my anguish and fled from my reflection into my bedroom and gripped my sheets, unable to face myself. With a deep breath I clamped my eyes shut and made a wish. Just like that, I was dragged away from reality.
YOU ARE READING
Living The Dream
Historia Corta'A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees dawn before the rest of the world'- Oscar Wilde. Some people say seeing is believing, but is seeing really believing? This is the story of two girls, and t...
